


Somewhere Special

by Sp00py



Series: A Study in Snuffering [13]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Coercion, Drugs, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gang Rape, Incest, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2020-06-25 14:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19747552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: The Joxter invites Snufkin to a place for only mumriks.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm doing it. No editing. No rewriting. Just posting this so it's out in the wild instead of locked up on my Drive for years. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, rating and tags to be updated as I actually go through and reread what I have. Just going from memory rn.

Snufkin left like the last breath of summer, suddenly and without warning, chasing the warm winds south.

Many things had changed over the years since he’d adopted Moomin Valley as his home, he had a place to pitch his tent every spring, a family of marshmallowy Moomins, and his own blood family as well.

But that was sort of the problem. His family. The Joxter, in particular.

It had been nice at first, having a father. The Joxter knew when to leave him alone, which was most often, and when it was okay to invite himself along, which was rarely, and usually involved crime. By now they had been loosely acquainted for years, and understood each other’s rhythms well enough.

Snufkin hadn’t felt it was one of those invite yourself along sort of days when he came across the Joxter this time, so he regarded him with some wariness, as you would a stranger who decided to lock step with you.

He was wearing a different outfit, something oddly garish and polished. Blue like the sea, instead of muted autumnal shades, with a flower orange as his hair on his lapel. His movements were accompanied by the dull thud of a black walking stick.

Snufkin ignored him, but could feel his glittering golden eyes on his back like spiders between his shoulder blades. He usually found solace in the noises of nature, rustling leaves and animals cooing and babbling brooks, but every sound was undercut by that  _ thud, thud, thud _ . Snufkin felt like all the world was staring, waiting. Notes of winter blew in, crisp and clear; early fallen leaves moldered and crunched underfoot; and, beneath all that,  _ thud, thud, thud _ . The songs were all there, but Snufkin couldn't take hold of them with the Joxter there. He didn't want them mixed up with the Joxter's strange presence.

“Did you hurt your leg?” he asked politely, eyes on the path ahead.

“No.” Silence fell for several long minutes. “Would you like to go somewhere special? It's not to the south, I'm afraid.”

“I don't  _ need _ to go south,” Snufkin said, a little offended at the idea he had routes mapped out. He went wherever he pleased. It just so happened that was often south, or to Moomin Valley.

“Of course not,” the Joxter purred. “Nobody needs anything -- but if you want…” he trailed off, letting his gaze drift from Snufkin to the horizon.

“Somewhere special?” Snufkin asked.

“Special to the likes of us.”

There was the interest. A change in the rhythm of Snufkin's stride, a glance back. The Joxter knew he had some curiosity in him about the mumrik side of him. Mymbles were easy and open, and he knew enough of their thinking to feel comfortable, but the Joxter, despite all their similar notions and drives, was a mystery. Snufkin fell back a little, let the Joxter take the lead. He wanted to see this special place.

The Joxter moved at a steady, constant pace, in no rush. There was time aplenty.

* * *

They traveled for days until they reached the sea, then walked along the shore until they found a boat. It was probably  _ somebody’s _ boat, but neither were disposed to respecting the idea of possessions, and it could always be returned.

The Joxter’s eyes lit up as soon as they were past the breakwater, nose to the sky, a hand on his hat, the other on the rudder as fair winds followed at their back. Snufkin didn’t know where they were going, so simply sat at the bow and watched the water curl and coil like ribbons around the boat. Little spooks, with their googling, staring eyes, bobbed in the seafoam before drifting past, and off in the distance sometimes Snufkin could see rafts of Hattifatteners on their way to their own secret places.

At night they lay together against the chill of the ocean and watched the stars and sometimes Snufkin played a song, or the Joxter told little half-stories and half-thoughts in that relaxing purr of his. It was two days and nights before they saw an island looming in the darkness.

“Is that it?” Snufkin asked, feeling excitement swell at the idea of such a desolate little place. The Joxter tied down the rudder and slunk forward to lean against the rail alongside Snufkin.He draped an arm over Snufkin’s shoulders. 

“It doesn’t have a name,” he said. “But most things that matter don’t.”

Then he pressed a quick kiss to Snufkin’s temple and returned to the rudder, leaving Snufkin with his face hot and suddenly very confused. He wasn’t  _ the _ anything like his parents, just a Snufkin, without a name and never needing one. He wondered if he was reading too much into the Joxter’s comment, though, because the man was inscrutable.

They pulled ashore alongside other boats of various sizes, and dragged theirs up past the waterline so it didn’t get pulled back out to sea. Autumn hadn’t touched the island yet, and the trees were thick with leaves and strange, large flowers like the one the Joxter wore, though his was wilted and dark, now. Hattifatteners shuffled through the grass and undergrowth, glowing faintly though Snufkin didn’t feel any storms on the horizon, and his storm sense was as good as any barometer’s. He had a sense of  _ something _ but didn’t know what to make of it with all the excitement buzzing through his bones.

“Come along,” the Joxter said, catching Snufkin by the arm before he could wander off to explore on his own.

Snufkin didn’t like being pulled along like that, but he’d been caught off guard, and the Joxter’s grip on his arm was strong. He scowled up at him in the darkness, and the Joxter’s eyes flashed as he grinned back down.

Slowly, as he adjusted to the island’s newness, Snufkin began to hear the other people. He saw figures between the trees, but even with his night eyes he couldn’t entirely make them out.

They stepped into a dark collective of eyes and hats and glowing pipes. 

Snufkin knew others like him existed, in an abstract sort of way like he'd known he had a father all his life (as few beings were born wholesale from blossom or starlight or water), but he'd never been real until they'd met. And the existence of other mumrik hadn’t meant anything until he was surrounded by them. They moved in darkness like wild animals, parted and closed around the two of them, circling. Snufkin took some comfort, now, in the Joxter’s arm still on him, his presence close and solid. Snufkin was sure he'd not let anything happen. He hoped.

A fire burned low and sullen, red light spilling across the ground but illuminating nothing, and the Joxter settled Snufkin at its edge, then sat himself down, the cane across his knees. Snufkin glanced around, but the others had returned to their own embers.

“What is this place?” Snufkin asked.

The Joxter shrugged, packing some tobacco into his pipe. “Just a place away from everything. Where we can be ourselves.”

Snufkin thought he could have done that perfectly well on his own in the wilderness, but felt there was something else under the Joxter's words, that he didn’t mean the same thing by ‘ourselves’ as Snufkin did. When the Joxter held his hand out, Snufkin turned over his pipe to be filled as well and let the quiet settle.

They puffed away together, staring deep into the glowing coals, then the Joxter blew out a stream of smoke like a dragon breathing, and spoke. 

“Do you like who you are?”

“I do,” Snufkin said immediately, without thought.

“And who are you?”

Snufkin opened his mouth to answer, then closed it tight around his pipe. He was himself, but tautologies weren’t really answers, were they?

“I'm whatever I am in the moment,” he settled on. 

“‘I am large. I contain multitudes’?” the Joxter quoted.

“Yes, I suppose,” Snufkin agreed. He knew he was being mocked, someone else’s words being used to describe his uniquely  _ Snufkin-ish  _ existence, but found it hard to muster his usual response. The Joxter crept closer, through a haze of smoke. He filled Snufkin's vision, a shock of whites and blues and reds, and Snufkin felt his heart speed up in a sudden spike of fear. He leaned back, almost fell over, but the Joxter grabbed him by his shoulder and pulled him close.

The Joxter hushed and cooed as Snufkin tried to regulate his breathing. He realized, with sudden, painful clarity, that sense of something he felt before was a Foreboding. A sense of wrongness that he’d never experienced before. And Snufkin was in the heart of it.

He buried his face in the Joxter's coat as though he could hide away from this impending dread. Snufkin wasn't one to be overcome by anything. His emotions came in swells and troughs, not in sharp stabbing pain like this, and he didn't understand what was so different now.

The Joxter held him, fingers carding through his hair, rocked back and forth as Snufkin choked on air.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit, these chapters go by so much faster than I remember. also fun fact, the working title for this was _Escape From Clown College_

He didn't quite sleep, but time nonetheless passed without Snufkin. He had impressions of events, as they happened to someone else in no particular order, and could barely remember them come morning.

Snufkin’s panic had passed, and he still felt all knotted up and twisted, but not on the verge of crying. He wasn’t entirely sure why he had been, in the first place. The Joxter wouldn’t let anything happen, right? That was what someone had said before?

The Joxter’s hands dipped from his hair to his coat, working along the buttons down the back, pulled it down until it pooled in Snufkin’s lap and gooseflesh rose on his arms.

More hands, dark and light and picking like birds, pulled at his hat, at his scarf, at his pipe which hung limp and sullen out of his mouth. Soon Snufkin was completely disrobed, shivering a little in the late-summer chill, and he felt that spark of fright again. His mouth felt numb as he mumbled a confused, quiet, “papa?”, and the Joxter settled between his legs. His hands roamed down Snufkin’s thin chest.

“Yes, my dear?” the Joxter asked, but at the rising laughter from around them, Snufkin found it impossible to answer, overtaken by an embarrassed blush. The Joxter’s teeth and eyes were bright.

The darkness crowded in, heavy and warm, reminding Snufkin of the calderas and fire spirits of his youth, but here he had no distance, no protection. He felt very small, again, and any sense of who he was slipped away, mingled and mixed with smoke and starlight.

The night burned into Snufkin's skin like words written by the Joxter's black gloves. His hat -- his hat was gone -- then returned before he could fret, heavy with flowers, dripping heady perfumes and golden pollen. Snufkin tugged it down tightly, hiding his thoughts as fingers white, black, blues and reds and yellows pulled him away from the Joxter to trace freckles and bone and pressed into him as though sinking into jelly.

He felt they were tearing him apart, taking -- taking something Snufkin couldn't quite articulate but was his and his alone and they were taking it.  _ They were taking it. _ Snufkin twisted, stumbled away, was caught up in a blue fabric that slid silk-smooth and enveloped him protectively. He looked up into the Joxter's gold eyes, tears blurring his view, voice trapped. Every touch from unknown hands was like a nail hammered into his skin. The Joxter, calm as a windless sea, helped him into the clothes, patted his damp cheeks dry. The taste of salt was on his lips. Snufkin could always trust the sea to be nothing more or less than itself. Enviable especially as everything else was wildly, bafflingly out of his control.

Snufkin slumped against the Joxter, finding some solace in the strange cacophony of colors that seemed to surround him as a fire flared brighter, casting away the darkness. The dark was dangerous, every child who’d ever cowered near their family’s hearths knew that. Though Snufkin had had no hearth to cower by, so learned to make the night his own as much as any day with his cat’s eyes and solitude, he was small and the darkness large, and he couldn’t _breathe_ until it retreated.

He felt a drumming that beat deep in his chest like  _ thud, thud, thud,  _ as he was pulled down to his knees.The others around them, who before had been naught but groping hands and reflective eyes, were cutouts and mirrored silhouettes in strange clothes like coat racks in a clown’s dressing room. They weren’t real, they were just costumes and flowers and strings of lights with smoke pouring out of grinning mouths. There was only him, and his father, and unseasonable warmth.

The Joxter leaned into him, soothed away the stinging touch of strangers from Snufkin’s flesh and his soft, secret places all tangled up in his head. He so often knew exactly how he felt, but everything here was dreamlike and alien, and so was Snufkin as a part of it all, some tiny little creature far away from himself. A Hattifattener being charged by something other than storms, drawn by some longing Snufkin didn’t understand. But as he wasn’t a part of this anymore, it wasn’t his concern.

That little animal was sent, dancing and glowing, into eddies of colors that spiraled like sunflower seeds and ocean currents, and laughter crackled like a radio in another room, muted and hazy as the moonlight. The Joxter had melted into the background, everything melted, eventually. Everything faded, all feelings and sensations, until there was nothing but starlight and smoke and wilting flowers everywhere.

* * *

The sun sat on the horizon, lazy as an orange cat, not sure if it wanted to rise any higher or simply dip back down into sleep. It painted the forest in a strange, dark light.

Snufkin stared up at the dewy leaves of a tree he couldn’t identify. He’d been trying to think of its name for an hour now.

Beside him, the Joxter was curled up, crushing both of their hats and a collection of dying flowers under himself. His hair was a wild mess of flames and flower petals, and he chewed his pipe stem in his sleep, whiskers trembling as he thought whatever thoughts occupied the dreaming minds of Joxters.

Something matted and tasteless was smeared on Snufkin’s lips. He licked them thoughtfully. Smeary, that was a good way to describe how he felt. It was a queer sort of description, but everything about this was odd beyond even his experiences. He was in no rush to move until he’d processed everything, the world could wait.

Right now, he felt tired, aching like the night’s imprints had gone deep enough to bruise his bones. But that was the only place he could find them -- his memory was nothing but artwork and abstractions.

Snufkin roused himself, finally, and sat up. He banished all thoughts of last night to some distant part of his mind, so he could focus on the present. He scented water somewhere, and, bleary-eyed, dragged himself to his feet. He was barefoot, could feel springy grass and cool soil between his toes. He cast about him to get a better sense of the world today, which was clearly changed from the world of yesterday.

Other people were curled up on bedrolls or branches or each other, or sitting and watching food cook.They were all dressed curiously in loud colors and patterns, festooned in flowers and fruits. Snufkin had a sudden flash of clowns in his mind, and funhouse people crowding around -- he shook his head to banish the inexplicable rush of fright that coiled in his belly. These were just sleepy Joxters and Snufkins, with their own oddities that made them ill-fit for societies not their own.

Snufkin swallowed a shriek when a hand pressed against the small of his back, and he whipped around so fast the world spun.

The Joxter caught him before he collapsed, and in gratitude, Snufkin  _ didn’t _ throw up on him. He swallowed a few times to choke down the sickness and focused on the cool leather of the Joxter’s glove on his cheeks and forehead.

Snufkin tried to put his thoughts into order. There was something so big and obvious he was missing, it was screaming in his ears when all Snufkin wanted was silence.

Obligingly, the Joxter pulled him away from the others, as several watched from under the brims of their hats like hawks. He led Snufkin to a giggling little brook. Snufkin glared at it, feeling discontent at the idea of laughter.

He sank down on the bank and braced himself just on the edge to peer down into the shimmery water. He touched the paint caked over his lips and streaking down his cheeks, some actual tear-tracks through red markings, other tears drawn on in blue. What had happened -- everything shifted like some internal earthquake as he tried to recall, instinct knowing he wouldn’t like the answer.

Snufkin fell into the water, then shoved himself upright like he’d been burned by the cold. His paws flew to his face, scrubbing hard, coming away with rills of blues and reds that mixed into muddy purple and swirled away in the water.

Snufkin dunked his head again, then again, then rubbed at the memory of the brushstrokes he could feel on his skin with his scarf. The Joxter watched without comment, arms draped over his knees.

Snufkin sat back and kept his face pressed into the scarf. It wasn’t  _ his _ scarf, but rather some blue, new-feeling thing, but he didn’t have much of an option anymore. Eventually, he pulled it away. The Joxter had come closer, still casual, still silent.

“What -- “ Snufkin cut himself off, swallowed down a sudden nausea. His head swam. “What happened? What  _ is _ happening? I can barely stand...”

The Joxter was on him in that instant, just as Snufkin faltered, catching him in his arms. He lowered him entirely to the mossy bank. Snufkin stared at him plaintively, hoping against hope that the Joxter answered his question instead of feinting to some other topic.

“I think you’re just having a bad reaction -- you’re very high strung for a Snufkin,” the Joxter said, jovially, like he was talking about a funny incident. And maybe it was funny, to him.

“A bad… Did you drug me?”

“Oh, now you’re panicking again, shhh, dear. It’s okay.” The Joxter pulled Snufkin in despite his struggles and stroked his hair, planted whiskery kisses on his face. “You’ll get used to it.”

“I absolutely  _ will not _ !” Snufkin cried out, shoving hard enough to break free. He dragged himself to his feet, anger giving him the energy to push down his nausea. The Joxter made no move to get up.

Snufkin breathed hard, trying to control the fluttering panic of his heart as he stumbled away into -- well, away  _ somewhere _ . Most of the others were gathered in the heart of the forest, so he went toward the beach. He’d take a boat, he’d leave. He couldn’t be here. This wasn’t a place for a Snufkin like him. Maybe it wasn’t a place for any Snufkin, and they’d just “gotten used to it”.

He shuddered to think about it.

The sunlight blinded him as soon as he stepped out onto the beach, and Snufkin braced his hands on his knees, body finally revolting against his brain the moment he paused. There wasn’t much in his stomach to throw up, leaving his muscles knotted and cramped and a sour taste in his mouth.  _ Bad reaction _ seemed an understatement. He wiped his mouth and squinted at the rows of boats wanting use. He picked a smaller one with some supplies left in it and shoved it into the water, waded out until it was bobbing safely, then clambored in.

The cold of the ocean water soaking into his clothes helped ground Snufkin a little, breaking through his frantic need to run. He raised the sails with shaky movements and let a light wind carry the boat farther out, gaze locked on the shore, waiting for someone to stop him. Nobody came to the shore. It unnerved him, a little, but that was what he wanted, right? For them to leave him alone. Snufkin shook off the malaise the empty beach caused and fell to the task of rigging the sails properly, a familiar, comforting ritual, and soon he was alone with the sea and the sky.

He sank back against the side of the boat and focused on the gentle rocking of the waves.

Someone sat up from under the supplies, sending apples rolling along the bottom of the boat, and blinked in confusion at the vast ocean around them.

A shriek caught in Snufkin’s throat.

“Oh, hello,” the Joxter said, turning his lavender gaze almost -- but not quite -- onto Snufkin. “Is the party over?” He had the characteristic purr of Snufkin’s father, but it was a little softer, a little more befuddled. He likewise looked softer and more befuddled, hair the color of old paper, clothes the same, all of him rumpled and washed out like he lived in boats all his life. Snufkin wasn’t entirely sure he could see.

Snufkin could jump out of the boat, but that left only the island as refuge in a vast, empty sea. And that was where he was trying to get from. This Joxter didn’t seem so bad, especially if he was old and blind.

“I’m afraid so,” he answered, helping himself to one of the apples. Snufkin suddenly found himself with a ravenous sort of hunger, and since the Joxter was content to watch the waves as they were blown wherever the wind went. Snufkin crept around him to see what other food there was once he’d finished the apple. Some bread and jam.

“That’s a shame,” the Joxter muttered with a yawn that suggested he didn’t find it that much of a shame. “I must have slept right through. Was it fun?”

“I didn’t think so.”

The Joxter was suddenly in Snufkin’s face, and he slammed his back against the boat to put some distance between them. Before he’d even registered that he’d dropped the jam and bread, they were being pressed back into his hands.

“Oh, you’re a Snufkin,” the Joxter said, squinting at Snufkin’s face as though seeing it for the first time. “You lot don’t know the first thing about fun.”

“I know about fun!” Snufkin said, tired of being told things about himself. “And what happened back there was absolutely  _ not _ fun.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy it. Was it your first time?”

Snufkin’s low burning ire died a little more. He hadn’t been apologized to yet, much less shown the slightest sympathy. And this Joxter hadn’t been at the -- what had he called it, a  _ party _ ? That seemed too quaint a word. But he hadn’t been there, hadn’t been involved in those things Snufkin couldn’t recall.

“Yes.”

The Joxter came and sat beside Snufkin, helping himself to the bread Snufkin still held in his numb grip. “I imagine it’s always a little scary for a Snufkin, the first time.”

“What do you mean?” Snufkin asked carefully. This Joxter seemed chattier than his own.

“You’re wild little things, aren’t you? Don’t like being touched or played with, though you’re so fun to play with.” The Joxter lapsed into a thoughtful silence, faded eyes on Snufkin. “Do you remember what happened?”

Snufkin shook his head, focus intense on the bread and jam, not the Joxter, warm and crumpled and far too close to him.  _ You’re so fun to play with _ . This was some game, still. One he didn’t know the rules of yet.

“Then the party’s not over yet,” the Joxter said happily. “You haven’t been properly enjoyed if  _ you _ don’t remember it.”

Snufkin stiffened. “ _ No _ .”

“No drugs or anything, of course. I’m old-fashioned,” he continued as though Snufkin had said nothing. “I think it gets easier faster without. Like pulling off a scab.” He grabbed Snufkin when he tried to climb over the bench. For as soft as paper as he looked, the Joxter had wry, bruising strength in his fingers.

Snufkin kicked and scratched and yowled like a cat with his tail caught as he was dragged into the Joxter’s lap.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops forgot to keep posting this. This is literally the last complete chapter, even. Should... probably finish the rest. P sure the next chapter has a surprise character.

The boat bumped gently against the sandy bottom of the island’s beach, and the Joxter let others take the rope and return the boat back to its proper place among its brethren. He settled back into the little cavity he’d carved among the supplies and pulled his hat down in front of his face. It was night now, the moon already high and white in the sky. This wasn’t the first night Snufkin had spent with him, though Snufkin didn’t know how many had passed anymore.

Snufkin sat in the bow, staring at nothing, torn coat exposing mottled skin that hinted at more damage than could be seen. His hands were tied together with fishing line, the blood from his struggles dried and flaking, and his mouth felt gummy and thick. The Joxter -- his Joxter, with red hair and golden eyes -- hopped aboard and sank down in front of him. He stroked Snufkin’s cheek. “Poor dear, you make things harder on yourself than they need to be.” He continued petting Snufkin a moment longer, then rounded on the other Joxter.

“What the hell did you do to my Snufkin?”

The other Joxter yawned. “I didn’t know he was _yours_.”

“You knew damn well he was mine, Pappa. There was only --”

“Pappa?” Snufkin asked, shaken out of his stupor by the unexpected word. He didn’t think of the Joxter, though, just of Moominpappa and the conversations they’d had as Moominpappa worked on whatever new fancy had taken him, puffing away at their pipes. And from Moominpappa, he thought of Moominmamma, the only mother he’d ever known, and Moomintroll himself. Snufkin hadn’t thought of him in ages, and the sudden ache hurt deep inside.

“Yes, my dear?” The Joxter asked, everything from his tone to his stance changing, melting into something gentler, some parody of a parent. He knelt in front of Snufkin, who twisted his fingers in the Joxter’s coat.

“I want to go home. I want to go back to Mo--” A hand over his mouth cut Snufkin off.

Suddenly, Snufkin was aware of eyes all around him, including pale purple. “Let him tell us where home is,” that Joxter said. “I might want to visit my…. Grandson.”

“Fuck off.”

The other Joxter began to laugh and talk about how he had a _Snufkin_ for a grandchild. Snufkin was left alone again as his Joxter leapt. Unknown hands slipped under his arms, and he was helped out of the boat, the line was removed, leaving a network of slashed skin behind. He kept his gaze locked on the ground, afraid to see what might come next, unable to not see what the Joxter had done. His words bounced around in Snufkin’s head, louder than the rumble of the sea or the birds in the trees.

Snufkin was led to a quiet area, moondappled and full of lightning bugs flickering on and off, on and off, speaking a code Snufkin didn’t understand, but found a good enough distraction from the figures milling about. He hated that he just accepted their touch, the careful prodding at his skin, the examination of his wrists, but he was strangely tired, too tired to muster the anger that he’d felt before, or the fear. Just a dull sense of loathing that made his skin crawl.

He finally looked up when the people scattered like shadows fleeing the sun, and the Joxter knelt down in front of him. Snufkin immediately dropped his gaze again, unwilling to look the Joxter in the eye. He wanted to be left alone, like he was supposed to be, somewhere far away, heading south for winter.

The black curve of the Joxter’s cane shoved against his chin, though, forcing him to look up, taking the choice out of his hands. Snufkin wasn’t sure how he felt seeing a bit of blood and swelling on the Joxter’s mouth, knowing who must have put it there. Snufkin glared, refusing to suppose anything about the Joxter’s past -- or his relationship with his elders.

The Joxter glared right back, his other hand balled into a fist. He looked like he wanted to hit Snufkin, and Snufkin was just _daring_ him to.

“I hate you,” Snufkin said. He braced himself, but even prepared the backhand hurt. Snufkin took a moment to adjust to it, then returned right to glaring at the Joxter. There must have been some truth in that other Joxter’s words. Snufkin felt like he’d crossed a threshold, what could the Joxter do to him that was any worse than what he’d experienced on the boat. “More than Park Keepers and signs, _I hate you._ ”

The Joxter leaned on his cane, pushing Snufkin against the tree, cutting off his air just enough to make him wheeze. Snufkin was sure he was going to beat him, or rape him, or any number of things he’d become far too familiar with these past days, and he just wanted the dam to break, to get it over with. He almost wanted the pain itself, if it helped get rid of the slimy feelings he could still sense under his anger, making it all muddied and confused instead of crystal sharp like he wanted. Things used to be _easy_. Snufkin felt one way, then another, and always knew how he felt. But now --

“I love you,” the Joxter said. It was a little hard to believe him with him cutting off Snufkin’s air, but soon he removed the cane and slumped against Snufkin, pinning him instead with his entire body. His hands came up and, instead of the violence Snufkin had been goading him for, cradled Snufkin’s head. “You’re _my_ Snufkin,” he said into Snufkin’s neck.

He had said that earlier, that Snufkin was his. Snufkin hadn’t registered it then, as he’d been reeling still. If it had been Moomintroll saying that, Snufkin might have felt pleased if a little scared of the obligations that brought, but here it only inspired revulsion and confusion. The Joxter grabbed his wrists when he tried to shove him off, movements calm but firm as he began kissing along Snufkin’s jaw and neck.

“Get off.”

“You’re mine,” the Joxter repeated, as though that gave him any right to do these things. “I don’t mind sharing, but not with _him_.”

Snufkin wanted to fight as the Joxter’s hands dropped to his legs and crept under his coat, but his body wouldn’t obey. Fighting hadn’t worked with the other one, fighting hadn’t worked the first time. The first time… “You can’t say you love someone when you drug and force yourself on them.”

“Did I force myself on you?” the Joxter asked innocently. He didn't bother denying the other accusation.

“Y--” Snufkin cut himself off. He’d thought so, but he didn’t _know_. Nothing about that first night made any sense, he couldn’t properly explain anything that might or might not have happened, or who did what.

“Did I?” the Joxter asked again, right in Snufkin’s ear. His hands were on Snufkin’s hips, fingers squeezing gently. The other Joxter had been gentle, too, or simply too lazy to be forceful, and Snufkin had bent easier than he’d like to admit. “I'll wait until you want me, my dear,” the Joxter murmured.

“I won't,” Snufkin said.

The Joxter just laughed in a way that reminded Snufkin of the other one, and pulled back. Snufkin wished that brought some relief as the Joxter stood, giving him more room, but he trusted nothing here, especially not the Joxter. And his judgement proved right as the instant he tried to stand, the Joxter’s boot shoved him against the tree hard enough that the wind was knocked from him. Snufkin writhed, pinned, but he hadn't the energy to fight.

“You don't realize how lucky you are,” the Joxter said, speaking slowly and clearly to be understood over the ringing on Snufkin's ears. “He could have killed you. He's done that before, you know. Killed a Snufkin. Tortured the poor dear to death, and didn't even stop there. And to find that you _willingly_ went with him. You could have turned the boat around, but you didn’t -- I hate the way knowing that makes me feel. You're not stupid. You must have had some idea of what he was….” The Joxter trailed off, teeth grit tightly together. He took a deep breath and stepped away from Snufkin. If he wasn't careful, he'd very easily do what the other Joxter had done and kill Snufkin. That would keep him from making any more stupid, stupid decisions.

He distracted himself lighting his pipe and spent a long, long while puffing away at it while Snufkin sat against the tree, no longer struggling, simply trying to recover. He was thirsty, and sleepy, and hungry. Everything seemed somehow far away, or too close -- warped, like looking through a fisheye lens. The Joxter looked down at Snufkin, all labored breathing and splotchy, teary cheeks. He didn’t know if he liked Snufkin upset or not, and the confusion was sort of thrilling. It was novel, in a world where things were roughly the same to him, always. He wanted that strange little knot in his gut all to himself, which was a trait he didn’t understand. If Snufkin had just made this easy, but such was the way of Snufkins. They had to be _difficult_.

The Joxter knelt back down, and Snufkin leaned away. He caught his shoulder easily and pulled him back.

“How could I know he was worse than you?” Snufkin asked, looking at the flower in the Joxter’s lapel. He needed a new one.

“Because he’s a Joxter, dear, and an old one at that. We’re all awful to rebellious little Snufkins, until they learn to not be so rebellious -- at least toward us -- but he’s been awful for much longer than either of us.”

“Moominpappa never mentioned anything like that. He said we were alike.”

“If we were alike, you wouldn’t be a Snufkin, or I wouldn’t be a Joxter, and as we are clearly ourselves, it seems Moominpappa doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

Snufkin had nothing to say to that. He both wanted to think of Moominvalley, but at the same time, didn’t. He didn’t want them to find out anything about this, and he, in some growing worry, thought about how maybe he’d never make it back. If this was just how Snufkins and Joxters were, was he destined to be another shadowy, painted, strange little creature like them? Was this some part of him that he never knew about before?

“Why are we like this?” he asked as the Joxter pulled him close and ran his fingers through his hair, humming comfortingly.

“That’s just the way things are. We do what we like, and for Joxters that involves sleeping in trees and eating oranges and doing forbidden things. For Snufkins, you all like to be left alone (but only when you want to be alone) and wandering and having forbidden things done to you.”

Snufkin nodded along, tired and finding some comfort in the cadance and truth of the Joxter’s words. They made sense, in a time when very few things did for him. The Joxter smiled into Snufkin’s hair as he didn’t even question that last one, and let his hands drop lower to rub circles on Snufkin’s back. Snufkins never knew the things they wanted until some helpful Joxter showed them. That was just how things were.

Snufkin was soon dozing in the Joxter’s arms, as though they were back on the boat, before the island, and nothing had happened yet. The Joxter’s hands drifted further down, waiting to see if Snufkin would jerk awake. Soon, he got a little more bold, moving Snufkin around so he could suck and nip at his throat and rub his fingers against the crux of his legs through his coat. Snufkin made some small noise, but didn’t wake. He was so much nicer and more compliant asleep.


End file.
